We're Not Friends
by YouBuyMeOrangeJuice
Summary: I couldn't help myself, post 503 one shot...and now a post 504 one shot too...and now one for 505/506...and now one for 509
1. 503- We Never Were

**A/N:** Post 503. This is not a fix it fic...

* * *

_"We're not, no, we're not friends, nor have we ever been, we just tried to keep those secrets in our lives, and if they find out will it all go wrong?"_

* * *

You've never tapped the 'decline' button so quickly in your life. You're pretty sure of it. You really don't want to hear it. Not right now. Not from her. Mostly because there's no point. Lisa's self-assured digs, disguised as groveling, really isn't what you want to listen to right now. Not by a long shot.

You swipe at the screen and continue staring. You try and will that little thought bubble to appear and for those three little dots to start blinking. It doesn't work and you're not the least bit surprised. Heartbroken, sure, but you're not surprised. You'd called her. You called her six times. You left three messages. You sent one text.

The blackness of the room feels incredibly appropriate. Your bedroom feels unbearably cold and your bed feels desperately empty. It's not the good kind of empty where you feel like you could stretch out for years in any direction you please, sheets like clouds and pillows like cradles. No. It's the bad kind of empty where you feel so very alone, like you got lost in the woods while you were out for a stroll and now it's so dark out; all this scary space but nowhere to go. It's awful.

The light from your phone starts to burn your eyes and you know it's not good for you. It's not good for people to stare at blue light for so long, and it's _really _not good for people to do it in dark rooms. You know that. You also know it's especially not good for you, given your already poor eyesight. You don't care right now. You really do not care.

When the tears start to prick your already burning eyes again you tell yourself it's because you've been staring at your phone in the pitch-black for the past two hours. That's absolutely the reason why your eyes are watering. You toss your phone back down on the nightstand and curl up in the opposite direction. You can't help but reach for the other pillow and pull it close. It still smells a little like Gail. She was here, with you, smiling, laughing, in your bed, only two nights ago and now it feels like another lifetime. And you hate yourself for it.

You wouldn't go as far as to say that you did anything '_wrong_' per say, but you could have done something _better_. And you hate yourself for it. Because the last thing you want is to hurt Gail. The last thing you ever wanted was for her to question how you feel about her. You used to be her safe space, _you _were the one she called to pick her up from the hospital when she felt abandoned and betrayed. _You _were the one she dragged into a coat closet when she didn't want to be around anyone else. _You _were the one she wanted to hangout with after her friend's son was kidnapped. _You _were the one she called when her friends were in the hospital and she'd had one of the worst days of her life. _You _were the one she broke down in front of, cataloguing the most heartbreaking points of the past for years of her life in the inches of hair she had spontaneously sawed off. _You _were the one she let help fix her up even though you'd never so much as cut your doll's hair as a kid.

But tonight, well, it was last night now you guessed, since it was after two in the morning...So _last_ night _you _had been the one to hurt her. Your action or inaction or the combination of them both had lead her to believe that you thought she was less than amazing. And that look on her face had broken you.

You breathe in her scent that still lingers on the pillow again and you can't stop the sob that cuts through your throat and echoes around your room. That look on her face had broken you but her words had stunned you. She had never said anything _to _you, _about _you, like that before. Even when she had sharply equated your budding relationship to 'big gay distraction' you knew that it was everything else happening in her world, to her friends, that day that had caused her to snark out like that. It hadn't been about you. But six hours ago she had said that she'd rather tase herself in the eye than spend another minute with you. It felt like getting kicked in the chest by a horse, a sharp, sudden pain that had yet to leave you. You had hurt her, even if she took what you said out of context, even if she was missing pieces, and making incorrect interpretations, she was hurt and it was because of you.

You push the pillow away, hoping that if you can't smell it anymore that maybe you'll stop crying. You're tired, so _so _tired. You have to be up for work in less than five hours but you can't sleep. You keep running the exchange you had with Lisa, and then the one you had with Gail, over in your mind, trying to think of what you might have done differently. You hadn't wanted to get into it with Lisa and you didn't think you had to justify your relationship to her. It didn't really matter to you what she said or thought. _No,_ you _definitely _didn't have to justify or explain your relationship with Gail to Lisa. You knew the best way to deal with Lisa was to get her to drop it as quickly as possible. Engaging with her unfounded quips would only make her assaults worse. You learned as much very quickly during undergrad.

You trash around for a second, flopping onto your other side trying to get comfortable, in hopes that you might actually catch a bit of sleep before your alarm tells you it's time to get ready for work.

* * *

And then it's ringing. It's ringing loudly. You were asleep, barely maybe. But you were definitely asleep. Your head hurts and your entire body aches. But mostly it's your chest that drags you down. It feels far too heavy and yet empty all at once.

You don't silence your alarm right away. You don't want to drift off and be late for work, but maybe you also want to torture yourself just a bit.

You turn the alarm off on your way into the bathroom. You shower quickly. As quickly as possible. You've never showered that fast since you were limited to five minutes showers at summer camp. Thirteen year old you would have been jealous at how easy you made it look. You just didn't want to be in there any longer than you had to and you didn't even want to remind yourself why.

You drum your fingers along the counter while you wait for the coffee to brew. You use this time wisely. It's a great opportunity to further scrutinize your actions, and inactions, of the night previous. Also, to berate yourself. Yes, definitely a good chance to berate yourself. You're pretty good at that when you want to be. You should have gone after her. You should have dropped the drinks and not given a thought to your coat and you should have run after her.

You cock your head to side and click your tongue. You have no idea what you would have said. Sure, now, you have a million and one things you'd like to say to Gail zipping through your mind. But then, last night, you probably wouldn't have been able to muster anything beyond some mumbling and a few rapid blinks of your eyelids. Probably some slack jaw thrown in too.

You groan loudly at your own ineptitude and pour the brewed coffee into your traveler.

You suck.

You spend the drive to work confirming that, factually, you are an absolute _fuck_ for not following Gail out of the Penny. Such a complete moron. They should take away your M.D.

You go across the street for lunch. Normally work was something you could throw yourself into, a never failing distraction. You could spend hours looking at bones and tissue and slides and forget about most anything bothering you in your personal life. Not today. Today, holed away in your lab, Gail's voice echoed in your head. 'I just see bones' and 'can you make go any faster?' and 'I hate people' and 'I just thought that was you' and 'what are you doing tonight?' and 'I want to get down' and 'thanks for doing this.'

So, you go across the street for lunch. You're carefully scrutinizing your sandwich to make sure they actually held the mayo when it washes over you. Even if you _had_ gone after Gail last night and said _all _the _perfect_ words there's no way she would have heard you. The bridge was drawn up and the mote was filled with water and flames. Nothing you said would have reached her, it wouldn't have done any good. She might have even flipped it on you, somehow finding the opposite of your meaning in your words. It wouldn't have been her fault, but it wouldn't have done any good.

You take a bite of your sandwich and instantly damn yourself to hell. You automatically ordered Gail's favorite without even realizing.

* * *

_"We're not, no, we're not friends, nor have we ever been, we just tried to keep those secrets in our lives, and if they find out will it all go wrong?"_  
- _'Friends' Ed Sheeran_

* * *

**A/N:** I know this wasn't a 'fix it' fic but I never claimed it was...I wanted it to fit in with canon as much as possible. I also wanted to give Holly's POV a shot for the first time and highlight the complexities of their current situation...I hope you didn't hate it.

And I owe you guys a FHO update! Life completely got in the way and it bums me out. But you will get another chapter of that before 505 airs at the _latest_. You guys are seriously the sweetest.


	2. 504 - Read Receipts

A/N: Post 504. Still not a fix it but I couldn't help myself.

* * *

Your thumb hovers over her name. You want to tap it. You want to tap her. That sounded _so _wrong. You want to tap her name on the screen because you want to call her. You slam your head back against the headrest in an effort to snap yourself out of it.

It's cold out. So, _so _cold out and you've been sitting in your car, your _idling _car, with the heat on, for a while now. You don't know how long it's been, and you don't want to know because knowing how long you've been sitting in Fifteen's parking lot with the engine running can really only serve to make everything worse.

You wish you could call your mom. You wish she'd swoop in and make you cookies and tea and hold you tight. You wish she'd rub your back while you cried into her neck. You wish she'd tell you everything would be okay. You wish for the power of your mother's conviction and you wish for the warmth that you can barely remember. You need her to tell you everything will be okay because your mother is a lot of things but she is not a liar. Your mother never makes promises she can't keep.

If there is one thing you can count on your mother for it is her refusal to make empty promises. She learned early in her career not to make promises on the job that she couldn't, without certainty, uphold. She could promise effort and she could promise intentions and she could promise goals. Elaine Peck never promised outcomes. Not when she couldn't guarantee them, not when she wouldn't be willing to bet the lives of her children, her babies, on it. She only promised outcomes when there was only one truth, only one door to open.

She had ways of making promises that were just shy of what you wanted, just a cloak for uncertainty. You wanted a promise of an outcome but she promised effort, and intention, and goals. When your dad went away to that conference for a week when you were seven you started acting out. You were daddy's little girl and you couldn't believe he'd leave you for a whole six days. He wasn't reading to you at night and there were no piggyback rides and there were no trips to the ice cream store. Steve was just so excited for Dad to bring something back for him, some stupid souvenir. You were pretty sure nothing cool came from southern California, unless he was going to bring back Harrison Ford himself.

You liked to think that as a child you kept your parents on their toes. You're pretty sure, you won't admit it, but you're pretty sure that week you were a terror. When your mom finally sat you down to get you to cut it out she had promised that your dad loved you, and that he missed you. Looking back, you realize she hadn't even promised he would be coming home. But she promised you'd always be his little girl.

She had clever, roundabout ways of not promising what you ached for her to promise. But you knew she couldn't promise those things. She wouldn't promise something that could ever not be the truth.

She's not really a warm person, but neither are you. Making you tea and cookies is really something that she's more likely to do in one of your nightmares than in her own kitchen. You don't have the kind of relationship where your mom will rock her twenty nine year old sobbing daughter in her arms. Part of you thinks this is because she really can't bare to see you hurting. But part of you hates her for it, longs for her to just be your _mom_ for a little bit. You know that's not going to happen.

You're sitting in your car, in the division parking lot, crying, because a few hours ago you had to tell a little girl her mom had died. She was an orphan. Her mom was in the wrong place at the wrong time and now she doesn't have a mom anymore. Well, she has a mom, a _dead_ mom. She doesn't have a mom who can make her cookies, she doesn't have a mom who can make her tea, she doesn't have a mom who can read to her at night, who can get her ready for school in the morning. She. Does. Not. Have. A. Mom. Not anymore, not here with her.

That's why you're crying.

There was always something about your mom, so strong, so poised, so composed, so nagging, and you just always had this feeling she would be around forever. As much as the thought of her critiques of your hair color and career choices never ending makes your blood run cold, it is also intensely comforting. She was your stone gargoyle. She was permanent.

So, right now you ache for her to promise that it will be okay. That Sophie will be okay, that someone will make her cookies, and tea, and read to her at night, and help her cross the street, that someday soon not having her mom won't hurt. You need her to promise that your heart rate will go down, that your breathing will return to normal, that the ache in your chest will dissipate, that the vice that's been flattening your ribs, your heart, your shoulders, your head, and your hands will so much as loosen an inch. If she promises it will be okay then it will be okay.

You can't call your mom. You just _can't_. It's never been something you do.

Your thumb dances around the screen as it hovers. Maybe it's trying to avoid tapping down on her name, worried that if it hovers without darting that it will just fall. Just drop down onto her name like a hammer and then you'll be calling her. Calling her for the first time in a week and a half.

Maybe it's dancing around in hopes that sooner or later its erratic behavior will lead to a stumble, a trip, and that it will graze her name on the screen. And then you'll be calling her. Calling her for the first time in a week and a half.

She's your safe place, your safe space, it's in her smile. Right now it's so clear that she still is. You've quarantined yourself though. You're hurt and still a little mad and slightly embarrassed. You quarantined yourself a week and half ago the second you left her at the Penny. You've ignored all her calls, all her texts. Not including Fite Nite you'd gotten four texts, three phone calls, and three voicemails. They come at random intervals. You're never sure when to expect one. Usually you get two every three days. She's not smothering you. She's good at that. But you don't know how to lift the ban, how to un-quarantine yourself. You think you need her right now and you don't know how to need someone.

You kept the read receipts on. You kept them on when they introduced the stalkery feature. You thought it added an extra aggressive touch to ignoring someone, an added bit of aloofness and disinterest that is so key to your facade. Plus, you could read a text in the notification center without it triggering iMessage to tell someone you read the text. It put you even more in control.

You kept them on a week and half ago. It was to make sure she saw that you saw, to make it clear you were completely ignoring her. You were getting her messages, you were reading them, but you were _not _responding. It was to make your silence hurt her just a little bit more. That's what you told yourself at least.

Maybe though, you wanted her to know you were still there. And you read them. You read all four. You could have just left them. She'd see that they had been 'delivered' but that you hadn't read them. You didn't though, you read them, and she saw. Maybe it didn't make your silence sharper, maybe it made it softer. Maybe it was a connection, as weak and artificial as it was.

You can't get the woman's face out of your head. You can't get the little girl's eyes out of your head. Their matching keychains. You can't stop crying, sitting in your car in the parking lot.

You wonder if she knows. She knows about the shootings, she _must_. You had kept your head down and had done an excellent job of avoiding the coroner's van at the scene. Chris had made a dumbass comment about it but at least he had gone along with your plan to avoid the floor where they found the body. You don't know if Holly was there. Steve and Traci didn't say anything to you about it, you'd barely seen them since the shooting.

You wonder if she knows about Trina and her orphaned daughter.

She could have been working on something else. Someone else could have been assigned the case.

Or she could be doing the autopsy.

You stare down at her name, your thumb still darting to and fro.

You chance a look at the dashboard. It's negative sixteen degrees! You're almost out of gas too, the needle just dipped into the red. You can feel your thumb about to cramp up.

You close your eyes and take a deep breathe, trying to calm yourself for the ride home and the pitstop at the gas station along the way.

And then, like a slap, the electronic imitation of a duck quacking fills your silent car, bouncing off the windows.

Her name is flashing across the screen.

She's calling you.

* * *

A/N: You guys are super great. Hang in there!  
xoxo


	3. 505 - A Gift

A/N: I guess I just can't quit these. Post 505, about a day later.

* * *

"I'm a little insulted you know."

You whip your head around to find Steve leaning up against your locker, hands in his pockets. You fold the last box forcefully and throw it toward the trashcan all while giving Steve the stinkiest stink eye you can muster right now. You know it's not much but you really hope he gets the message.

"All the gifts," he clarifies casually, widening his eyes a touch as he nods towards the pile of broken down boxes next to the trashcan. "Really, I'm a little hurt," he continues as he jingles his keys in his pocket.

"You know this is the _women's _locker room," you say, ignoring his pretend hurt feelings, "menstruate or get out." You grab your sweater off the wooden bench and pull it over your black tank top.

"I've changed your diapers," he scoffs, nodding his head to the side, dismissing your protest. "Anyways, I heard there was a MagicBullet up for grabs."

"You didn't change a _single_ diaper of mine," you countered. "Mom has been very clear on that. I was _born _potty trained." Okay, so you were definitely _not _born potty trained, but Steve would be so lucky as change a baby Gail diaper. "I gave the blender to Swarek," you add quickly. Begging was so unattractive. You plop yourself down on the bench and begin stuffing your feet into your boots.

"I wasn't even _four_," he reminded you with a roll of his head. He lifted his foot and placed it on the bench, closing down your aisle to the door. "And why'd you give it to Sam?" Steve scrunched his nose, disbelief coloring his face.

You work the laces on the boot now housing your right foot, "because Collins signed for it at the front and made some comment about how I was gonna make a ton of gross milkshakes or something." You stamp your boot on the ground after finishing with the laces. "And Swarek was right there and he _did_ get shot and all. _He _drinks smoothies," you add, defending your choice, "so I said it was a gift for him." You move on to your left foot, shoving it in the boot.

"I'm your big brother." He says it like it might be news to you as he flops down dramatically next you, "not a single misguided purchase for me?" He's facing the mirror while you've got your back to it and as he leans back a bit he tries to look you in the eyes.

"You're my big brother, you're supposed to love me no matter what," you tell him dismissively.

"No, I'm pretty sure you're supposed to buy me things to make up for all the loud crying you did as an infant," he answers quickly as he taps his shoes weirdly on the concrete floor.

"Well if you want," you offer, your voice cloaked in mystery, as you lean down to rustle in your box of tricks, "I don't really see myself getting much use out of this," you can't help but smile as you hold the boxed Diva Cup out to him. You really don't know why you bought it in the first place. It's weird, and creepy, and you would really never use it, but the commercial was convincing and said it was pretty eco-friendly and economical, that's probably why you added it to your digital shopping cart. You would never use it though, and you're going to send it back. You might as well get a rise out of Steve first though.

He turns the box around in his hand for a second, a confused look on his face, until he reads enough of the packaging and almost yelps in surprise. The box shoots out his hand like a hot potato and he recoils a little bit. "_Rude_," he says as he flicks your shoulder. "I was _going _to take you to dinner," he shakes his head, "but now _you're_ buying," he decides out loud.

"Nice try," you roll your eyes, pulling your bag out of your locker, putting your phone and keys inside, checking to make sure your wallet is still there. You and Steve usually share a meal at least every couple weeks without inviting your parents, you two are probably due, but because of what's been going on lately you can't help but feel like this is a pity invite.

"Come on Gail," he says sternly but softly, he drops the act for a second, that Peck flavored veneer disappears. "I know it's been a tough couple of weeks with the Jameson case, and what's going on with Holly but-"

You cut him off, "I don't want to talk about it Steve," and it's only half a lie, because you don't really want to talk to him about it. You want to talk about it - you want to talk to Holly about it. You still don't really know what to say to her and you still don't really know what you want to hear, so you're still 'not talking to her' even though you think you need to.

"Who said anything about talking about it?" He brings his shoulders up to his ears and flattens his lips, making his mouth look very duck-like as his eyebrows weave around in confused disgust. "We're going to eat about it, and drink about it."

You let out a snort. "I'd rather eat with Mom," you add a scoff for good measure. You're not really sure why you're giving him such a hard time. Of course, you have to keep up appearances because you're _clearly _the cooler sibling, but Steve's always let you be, ever since you were kids really. They way you behave around him is less of an act or a facade and more of a game, and he plays too. Your brother's one of the few people you really believe doesn't expect you to be someone you're not. You're not as open with him as you could be, and for a second you feel a little guilty. He's always kept your confidence, never ratted you out to your mother when it mattered. You know he'd be true to his word, he would never push you to talk about something you didn't want to talk about. You both were like that really. Steve might not be as strongly adverse to opening up as you are, but he sure doesn't default to sharing.

"Cool," your brother answers casually pulling his phone out of his pocket, "I'll call her."

"You're joking."

You want to sound calm, collected, cool as cucumber, but you know the tension and anxiety has made it's way to your voice. Steve must know he's got you. He raises his eyebrows dauntingly, turning his phone so you can see the screen. He's got your mother's contact open and his thumb is hovering over her number.

"_Fine, _you can buy me dinner," you huff, throwing your bag over your shoulder and slamming your locker shut. Really, hanging out with Steve for a short while isn't the _last _thing you want to do right now, especially if you can get him to pay. "You can carry my boxes," you add, with a short nod to the box containing the sweaters, candles, and vitamins you ordered. "And don't forget that one," you tell him, pointing to the discarded Diva Cup box, "I need to return that." You're already halfway out the door but you know Steve won't be far behind.

* * *

A/N: Thanks so much to all of you who have left reviews on these post-episode one shots! I'm really glad you're liking them, and that you haven't shouted at me to fix Gail and Holly ;) I know Holly's coming back, but the sooner the better right? Officer Peck needs her Dr. Stewart, and so do I!

Let me know what you think of this one. Every night I pray to Tassie Cameron that we get some Peck sibling interactions (you've probably figured as much if you've read my other stories) and so I thought I'd writer one for them that could hopefully just slip in with what's canon. Love it? Hate it?


	4. 509 - Dinner for Seven, Drinks for Two

**A/N: Post 509. Still not a fix it...**

* * *

Gail nodded and flashed a closed lip smile at Steve when he held up the bottle of wine, raising his eyebrows, silently asking if she wanted him to fill her glass. She wasn't much of a wine drinker but wine was what her mother served at Peck family dinners, and Gail wasn't about to turn down alcohol. As much as she hated the torturous drawn out conversation, she welcomed the brandy that came with the post-meal relocation to the sitting room. During the late spring and the summer it would be gin and tonics on the patio. The holiday season called for eggnog by the Christmas tree, adorned with festive lights and tasteful, Elaine Peck approved, decorations.

She reached for the glass just as soon as Steve had placed the bottle back on the table. Gail had told her mother Holly wasn't coming; she was _certain _she had a croaked out a 'we broke up' when her mother called a few days ago to remind her about dinner. So, why there was a place set for Holly was really beyond Gail. Was it a jab at her inability to make a relationship last? That would be really ironic because in the past Elaine often thought Nick 'wasn't going to be able to make it,' and then slowly hurried to set his place. Her mother would 'forget' to set a place for her longtime boyfriend, but would set one when Gail told her that she wouldn't be bringing anyone after all? _Excellent_. At least there weren't empty plates on _either side_ of her. Poor Steve.

She wasn't positive, but Gail was pretty sure Steve hadn't told their mother Traci and Leo wouldn't be joining them until they were on the doorstep, in hopes that things might magically fix themselves. Maybe _that's_ why her mother had set a place for Holly; maybe she was wishing that her daughter hadn't fucked up the most serious relationship she'd ever had. Not that Elaine knew that. Maybe she did, she knew tons of other stuff Gail hadn't told her.

She swiftly forked a pile of mashed potatoes into her mouth, trying to forget how she had practically gushed about Holly to her mother. Gail Peck doesn't gush. Gail Peck doesn't do girl talk. Gail Peck certainly does not gush, nor does she talk 'girl' with her _mother._

Steve gave her _the look _and nodded toward their father at the head of the table, signaling that she was supposed to be taking part in the conversation. Their dad had no doubt asked her a question about work, about her career, of course. And in that moment she cursed Holly and Traci, because if they were here the Spanish Inquisition would surely have found alternative targets.

Gail wanted Holly to be here with her. She wanted her parents to meet Holly because Holly was smart, and Holly was friendly, and Holly cared about her, and she was _proud _of Holly. Holly was _so wonderful _and Gail wanted to smack herself every time she thought about how she ran away from that relationship. But right now, honestly, Gail wished Holly, and Traci, and Leo were here because her parents wouldn't be asking her when she was finally going to apply for a detective rotation or an elite task force.

Was the disappointment stained career counseling really necessary? Every single month?

When they finally got out of there Gail didn't even bother to check her phone. What was the point? There wasn't anyone she wanted to talk to or hear from right now. Well, not anyone that she would be hearing from, at least.

"You wanna grab a drink?"

The tension from the evening oozed from Steve's voice. He wasted no time in getting them out of the driveway, clicking his seatbelt while he turned the key in the ignition.

"Do I not glow in the dark?" Gail glared at him from the passenger seat, all the resentment and self loathing and disappointment from the evening sharply focussed on the side of his face.

"Just checking," he said after a short laugh at Gail's answer.

"Just not the Penny. _Anywhere_ but the Penny," Gail instructed as she leaned back into the seat, digging the back of her head into the headrest. Maybe if she was lucky the black leather would just swallow her whole.

Both siblings were quiet as Steve steered them around the city, out of their parents suburban neighborhood and towards his busier and younger neighborhood. Gail turned on the car stereo but spent much of the ride searching the radio waves for a song that suited her in this particular mood.

Steve pulled into a parking spot outside his building, locking the doors after Gail took her time getting out of the car.

"Sometimes I forget you moved out of that rat's nest in Cabbagetown."

Steve scoffed as he pocked his keys.

"I haven't lived there for two years."

"That's really great for you, brother," Gail gave him one of her patented sly smiles.

They walked the rest of the block and a half to the bar in silence, the noise in both their heads too loud for words. Steve paused just inside the doorway.

"Bar or table?"

It was close to empty and they had their pick of where to sit. Apparently not everyone wanted to get drunk with their sibling after a horrendous Tuesday night family dinner.

"Bar," Gail said, already making her way over to the long stainless steel counter top, "I don't want to have to look at your droopy face any more tonight than I already have."

They both ordered a bourbon and waited for some of the alcohol to seep into their thoughts.

"Mom's roots were getting a little noticeable," Gail commented, "almost makes me want to worry about her a little bit."

"Well you must have tuned out her rant about her hairdresser," Steve smirked as he brought his glass up to his lips for a long pull. "Went on vacation and his flight got postponed because of the snow, she hasn't been able to make it in since he got back."

Gail rested her chin in her palm, gazing off at the collection of bottles behind the bar, lit up from behind like a store window at Christmas time. "What a horrible world we live in Steven, our poor poor mother."

"Did you not tell her Holly wasn't coming?" Steve kept his eyes straight ahead, swirling the liquor around the ice in his glass.

"Of course I did," Gail bit back, "why the hell would I do that in person, on the day of, when I could do it over the phone?"

Steve rubbed down his face before nodding his head into his angled palm. "So, _what _was up with the place setting?"

"Hell if I know," Gail mumbled before knocking back another large sip. She had spent some time pondering it and didn't have any answers, and she was done thinking about it. At least for tonight. "Did you really think Traci would come?"

Steve shook his head, shaking off Gail's question before taking another drink.

"I mean, what did you expect her to do, Steve? He's her eleven year old's _dad_."

"I don't know." His answer was curt, accompanied by another shake of his head and another burn of alcohol.

"Can you imagine if _mom_ sent _dad_ to _jail_?" Gail finally chanced a glance at her brother. His back was hunched over his drink, his eyes boring into the metal in front of him.

"Fine," Steve turned his head to look at her but his neck remained hunched, "I get it."

"Do you?"

Gail posed the question with a lift of her eyebrows and unrelenting eye contact that made Steve feel exposed and guilty. She kept her eyes on him as she finished off the bourbon that was left at the bottom of her glass.

Steve turned a little on his stool so that his body was closer to facing her's, "well did you expect Holly to just wait around while you shut her out for longer than you'd even been dating?"

"We're not talking about me," Gail deflected quickly, turning away from Steve and back towards the bottles behind the bar.

"We weren't," Steve clarified with a small bobble of his head.

"It wasn't longer than we'd been dating," Gail grumbled and rolled her eyes before thanking the heavens as the bartender started making his way back to them.

"Can I get you guys another?"

Gail pushed her glass towards the freckled boy who looked barely old enough to drink. He was probably an _art student_. His hair sure looked like it belonged in a museum of modern art. "Make mine a double," she instructed him.

She drummed her fingers along the cool metal while he poured them both another drink. "Hey, do you have any unhealthy food here?"

"Uhhh, yeah," the bartender flashed a quick smile before fishing out a black menu and passing it over the bar to Gail, "I'll be back in a minute."

"Are you seriously hungry?" Steve chuckled at his sister's ability to eat seemingly anything and everything all day long.

Gail shrugged loosely, eyes glued to the menu, "I'm eating my feelings."

"Have you talked to her since The Thumb?" Steve leaned over, peering around Gail's arm to look at the menu.

"Nope," she said quickly, popping the 'P' for emphasis.

"If you get the blooming onion I'll help you with it."

Gail shut the menu sharply, dropping her elbow on top of it and resting her chin in her palm.

"Holly's cool," Steve took a sip from his fresh drink.

Gail turned her head slowly and fixed Steve with a harsh look, "I _know_," she reminded him.

"You gonna get the blooming onion or what?"

Gail ignore Steve's question, but when the waiter came around she ordered one blooming onion and one slice of chocolate cake.

They chatted about the lighter moments of dinner while they demolished the food and a few more drinks, commenting on the dinner conversation but steering clear of the other's love life for the time being. Gail complained about the complete absence of fried food from the meal, and Steve groaned about the ever nearing springtime fishing trips he'd surely have to take. Gail reminded him that at least he got to get out of the cottage with their dad, while she was trapped there with their mother. Steve pointed out that she was only trapped because she refused to go outside.

"You know Steve," Gail looked down into her fourth empty glass of the night, "all those people today, they just threw out all these family pictures and trinkets and whatever. Just tossed aside. And I thought, _who _would do that? Why just throw all that out? And then I _realized_," Gail's voice turned harsher as her head looked up from the table to face Steve, "_I did that_. _I _threw it away. So who am _I _to judge? I mean our family is," Gail worried on her bottom lip trying to swim through her intoxicated mind to find a word that appropriately described the Peck Clan, "a _trip_, but Holly..."

Steve noticed the change in his sister, snarky and sharp half a drink and twenty minutes ago, she was fading fast and had ventured in mopey territory, turning her criticism inward. It was time to call it a night. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and flagged down the bartender to close out their tab.

"I mean we're _barely _a family, Steve, we have dinner with mom and dad _once a month_ and we can barely stand that."

Steve just smiled softly as he signed the receipt.

"Well, you'll always have me to get drunk with, Garbage Pail Gail," he promised as he hopped down from his seat.

"Where are you going?" Gail looked confused and little sad because of this new development. She didn't want the drinking to end.

"C'mon," Steve held up her coat for her, "time to go, especially if you're going to be wearing those body cams again tomorrow."

"Fuck," Gail hissed and rolled her eyes as she slid down from her seat, but she allowed Steve to guide the coat onto her back. She fished her phone out of her pocket and handed it to him, "get me an Uber," she instructed, "the nice kind, UberBLACK, none of that taxi shit."

Steve refused the phone but started to guide her out of the bar by her elbow, "c'mon, you're staying at mine tonight."

"What? Just put me in a cab," Gail protested as the cool night air stung her rosy cheeks.

Steve ignored Gail's protests and steered her down the street towards his building. "My couch is incredibly, indescribably comfortable," he assured her.

Gail grumbled but didn't protest or try to escape any further.

When Steve came back into the living room with a clean t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts as well as a blanket and pillow he found Gail, still in her coat, lying on the couch. She was on her back with her arms tight at her sides, stiff as a soldier.

"How very weird of you," he commented as he tossed the clothes onto her chest.

Gail heaved herself up to sitting and glanced around Steve's apartment. "We're just a couple of sad sacks," her voice was deadpan but Steve knew her emotions weren't, "just a couple of failed pales."

"I thought you helped someone today?" Steve's voice was light but tired, tinged with a little bit of awe at the information.

Gail looked up him with a bit of childlike glee, "I did," she said simply with a smile.

"Well, maybe it won't be _just _the two of us getting drunk after next month's dinner," Steve put the blankets and the pillow down on the armrest, returning her meek but hopeful smile.

"Yeah, maybe," Gail agreed quietly as she started to inspect the clothes Steve had left for her. She supposed a Blue Jays shirt would have to do. And then before she knew it Steve was vigorously ruffling her hair and then trotting off to his bedroom, calling out a victorious "night, Gail" behind him.


End file.
